Mikhail nods at Monty.Then at me.
“You are Wolf,” he says in a thick Russian accent.No question in it.
“Tell me you’ll find them.”I search his dark gaze.“Don’t waste our time.”
“You’re emotional.”
“I’m motivated.”I curl my lips, baring my teeth.
“Good.That accelerates decisions.”
I hope he’s good enough to slip inside Jag’s systems without breaking them.Good enough to find the trail Jag buried.Good enough to give us something to chase before time runs out.
Before the rotor wash settles, Mikhail is already walking, carrying nothing but a single hard case.
We lead him to the guest house.
Jag’s computer equipment scatters the living room and kitchen table.Servers, drives, monitors, and backups stacked on backups.Oliver ordered everything hauled here to prevent Jag’s attackers from destroying it.
This gear isn’t just hardware.It’s the trail.It’s how we figure out who snatched them and why.
Mikhail doesn’t waste time.He unzips his case, pulls on gloves, and goes to work.No yanking cables or rushed reconnects.He photographs every port, labels nothing, and keeps it all in his head.
Thirty minutes later, Jag’s systems hum back to life.Screens flare.Code loads.Cameras come online, and the guest house fills with the whir of computers thinking hard.
“How long?”I lean against the wall, arms crossed so tightly my shoulders ache.It’s the only way to keep my hands from shaking.
Mikhail tilts his head, considering.“If they are still alive?Hours.If they are moving?Longer.If they think they can’t be found?”A thin smile.“They are wrong.”
Alive.
The word hits and keeps hitting.What does alive look like for them?Jag breathing somewhere in the dark?Dove fighting for her life?Both counting on me to show up a week ago?
I lock my jaw until it hurts.I don’t let myself ask the questions scratching at my throat.Moved where?Hurt how bad?How much time have I already wasted?
Everything inside me is screaming.I keep my back to the wall, breathing shallow and controlled, when all I want to do is strap on every knife I own and start hunting.
Oliver stands beside Monty, hands clasped behind him, his demeanor radiating respect and old history, blood-deep and unspoken.
“Tell me everything.”He turns to Monty and me.
We give him the rundown, the footage, the decoy, the blind spots, Jag on his knees, and the name Adrian Crowe.
Oliver listens without interrupting.When we’re done, he exhales through his nose.
“Adrian Crowe.”A curl of contempt touches his lips.“He recruits through retreats and talent programs.Targets underage girls, invites them into his exclusive world, and tells them they’re chosen.”His eyes flick to mine.“These girls are isolated.No family or anchors.”
My jaw grinds.I feel it creeping up my spine, that familiar burn.
“He trades in psychological debt and dependency.”Oliver frowns.“The illusion of consent.”
Underage girls.
Children.
No consent there.
“He sells them.”I swallow hard, the room tilting with the sick memories of my own childhood.“He traffics them.”
